Crispin was nervous as he oversaw the loading of his painting paraphernalia in the trunk that was strapped to the back of the carriage that would take it to the train station. Faith wanted to squeeze his hand in comfort, but Lady Vernon’s brooding presence precluded that. She was not relishing the thought of being confined with the old woman for the journey to London. Crispin would follow an hour later, as suggested by Faith, to preclude the possibility of their feelings for one another becoming apparent to her.
Tonight, they’d see one another amidst the throng of artists and an eager and appreciative public. Faith hoped she’d be well received as the innocent muse, and to secure a modicum of respect and acceptance in advance of a marriage announcement.
So, Crispin accompanied them in the carriage to the town where he maintained he had business with a solicitor there. Lady Vernon boarded first and found an empty carriage while the footman loaded their trunk. As Faith prepared to board, the steam rising about her in such a fog tempted her to take the risk of a quick kiss, though of course such fancies were swept away by common sense. Faith had lost her heart, but she’d not lost the clear-sightedness that ensured her wits were undimmed by emotion when it was necessary.
“In a few hours, you may be declared the winner of a prestigious prize and find yourself in possession of a fortune, Crispin. Will you still want me?”
“All aboard!” The station porter walked down the platform, slamming doors. He’d reach Faith in a moment, and she hung on his answer.
“This is no infatuation, if that’s what you fear,” he told her. His eyes were warm. “I want to shout out to the world that I am so very proud to make you my wife. We will do this properly, Faith.”
“I’m afraid,” she said, admitting the truth. “I want us to be married soon and quietly. If you truly love me, you’ll forget about the fanfare, Crispin.”
The previous night she had tossed and turned fearing for the consequences of doing things the way Crispin would have them done.
“Please, Crispin. I love you; I adore you.” Again, she touched her belly. “What if you are caught up by the consequences of tonight, and our wedding can only take place six weeks hence. Or, what if your father tells you he’ll give us your blessing only if you wait six months. Yes, it may be with all the acceptance and pomp and ceremony you would like, but what about me? Think of the shame I would bear if I were to bear a child less than eight months after our wedding day?”
The guard was nearly upon them. She gripped his hand, her expression pleading.
Finally, he nodded. “All right, we will marry secretly, and we will plan a second ceremony as if we’d never contracted the first. Does that satisfy you?”
“Train’s leaving, Miss. Please board now.”
Faith smiled her relief at him. She’d not thought of such a possibility, but it was eminently pleasing—clearly, to both of them. Faith stepped aboard the train, and Crispin gripped her hand briefly through the door that was about to be slammed shut. “I’ll organise a special licence. We shall marry in secret tomorrow, or if it can’t be managed, the day after. Does that satisfy you? We will marry at the earliest because I love you and I want to prove it.”
Faith exhaled on a sigh of relief. “You’ve proved that a thousand-fold. Thank you, Crispin,” she whispered, reaching forward to touch his shoulder before the conductor slammed the door. “I look forward to seeing you tonight. I think it will be a night to remember.”
“Lover’s parting?” Lady Vernon asked as Faith seated herself.
Faith sent her an ingenuous look. “Mr Westaway and I have become friends, as is to be expected under such unusual circumstances. He cannot marry me, Lady Vernon; I explained that before.”
“We all knew that from the beginning. Your job was to entice him into changing his mind. What progress on that front? Mrs Gedge will want to know. She’s parting with a lot of money to ensure matters progress as she would have them.”
“Mrs Gedge must have a very cold heart if she’s spent three years plotting vengeance against the poor man.” Faith couldn’t help herself. “But I’ve not exactly been steeped in softness thanks to my less than tender upbringing. I want my freedom too. And I shall have it.” She sent Lady Vernon a level look. “You are my minder, not my confessor. Nevertheless, you may rest assured we will all get what we want; you included.”
A beautiful gown beyond Faith’s imagination lay upon her bed when she returned to her lodgings at Lady Vernon’s, for it had been deemed too risky to return to Madame Chambon’s while she was in the public eye.
“Courtesy of Madame Gedge. She says it’s her parting gift…on top of the five hundred pounds she anticipates handing over before too long.”
Faith liked the fact Lady Vernon seemed uncertain about the undercurrents between Faith and Mr Westaway. Well, she’d not enlighten her. The old cow could claim her reward, and Faith hoped never to hear from her again once she and Crispin had left the country.
All they needed to do was slip away to marry in secret, and then they’d be in Germany before anyone thought to look for them. There, Faith had no doubt she could cement her new husband’s affections to make up for the untruths he believed about her.
“It’s beautiful.” And it was. Made of midnight-blue silk with a froth of a train decorated with pink bows and an abundance of velvet flowers, it showed off her hourglass figure to perfection. Once she’d bathed, Lady Vernon’s personal dresser helped Faith step into the skirt that was held close to the front of her body by tapes, pushing the fullness all to the back. Low cut with a décolletage trimmed with tiny pink silk roses it was a fairytale dress.
Little wonder she garnered so much attention when she was admitted to the Royal Society of Artists’ gala.
Her painting was already on display together with the others, but Crispin’s superior talent was apparent. Faith could hear it in the whispers around her. Whispers that included reference to her bountiful assets, also. Tonight was the culmination, almost, of her greatest desires, and her heart felt very full. Crispin would be honoured, as was his due, but she, too, was worthy of honour in her own right. Even if it were only for her beauty, Faith was still proud to claim it. The penniless daughter of a violent, alcoholic farm worker had come far indeed.
But how much further she intended to go. She would extirpate her roots; her past. The time would come when Crispin would ask more about her family, but she would navigate that difficulty as she was navigating tonight. Nothing was insurmountable. If necessary, she could pretend a different family. She’d find the right help. She’d claim her parents wanted nothing to do with her. That she’d been unable to admit such a thing when she first met him, for how could any man marry a girl disowned by her parents?
“Miss Montague, Sir Albion was asking for you.” There was Crispin, smiling, encircled by admirers, and now drawing her and Lady Vernon into a gathering that included the patron of the society and his wife. They welcomed her warmly, reiterating their earlier words.
“You have succeeded very nicely in unleashing brilliance from this gentleman’s brush, Miss Montague,” said Lady McKinley. “There is no doubt about tonight’s winner.” She waved her hand at the three paintings lined up side by side on the dais. “Perhaps you will not go to Germany after all, Mr Westaway.”
Faith glanced at her husband-to-be. Much as she wanted him to have the opportunity to devote his career to his art, Germany factored importantly in her plans.
“A shame your father is not here to see this.” Sir Albion’s nod encompassed the gathering as a whole. “He would understand that the public admires an artist in the same way they appreciate their need for a clever diplomat.”
“I hope my father will come to understand that, too. But alas, he is not here, and I have not yet won the prize.”
It was only a matter of time, of course. Only a matter of time before a hush fell upon the crowd as Sir Albion ascended to the dais and made his pronouncement.
It was about to become real. All t
hat Crispin had dreamed of would come to pass. All that Faith had ever dreamed of would come to pass also. She had to cling to that belief, or she’d have nothing. Crispin loved her, and she loved him. They were young, good for each other, and free to marry.
Her thoughts had been running over this like a mantra, when she became conscious of the buzz that swept through the room. She felt a surreptitious squeeze of her bare arm, above her long gloves and below the puff of her silk and chiffon sleeve as Crispin passed her, signalling his excitement, his connection with her before cutting a swathe through the room on his way towards the stage.
Dear lord, he’d been declared the winner.
People congratulated him, and Faith felt an empathetic surge of excitement to see him so recognised. As she stared at the scene from the centre of the room, amidst strangers and well-wishers, the lovers and scions of the art world, and society as a whole, a feeling of the most intense desire swept over her. She wanted to belong.
She wanted Crispin more, but to belong to Crispin, to have his heart truly and completely, she needed to belong and be accepted by this world.
Crispin addressed a hushed crowd. Proudly, Faith heard him convey his thanks for the support he’d received; his pleasure at the fact the crowd endorsed the judge’s choice and finally, with the room erupting into polite but enthusiastic congratulations, she intercepted his look from over the top of the heads of the throng.
Brief, but intense. Yes, they would marry in secret tomorrow. Nothing could stand in the way of their love. And when he boarded the packet for the first leg of his journey to Germany, she would be there too. Unobtrusive and veiled, certainly, but discretion was essential if they were not to be hounded by those who believed a penniless debutante was not good enough for him. No, nothing would part her from his side.
“I couldn’t have done it without you, Miss Montague.” He bowed over her gloved hand and kissed the back of it, and sensation speared her like a physical lance.
“I just did my job, Mr Westaway.” She smiled and was about to say more when they were interrupted by a familiar American accent, mid-Atlantic, as Faith had heard it described. “Please tell me how you would define that, Miss Montague. Your job, I mean.”
Miss Eaves arrived in their midst, her expression eager as she held a pencil poised above a notebook. Her gown was plain but expensive; however, she clearly had a penchant for feathers as six ostrich plumes waved in her coiffure as she moved.
“I hope you don’t mind my interrupting, but my uncle has tasked me with writing up the story of tonight’s win for the Artist’s Magazine.”
Faith glanced at Crispin who seemed unperturbed, still buoyed up by his success. “Of course not. It’s a great honour and a great surprise, both to receive the prize and to have it mentioned in such an illustrious publication. But your question was directed at Miss Westaway.”
Having been given licence to speak freely, Faith said, “I perfected the art of stillness sufficiently for Mr Westaway to recreate the fiction that I was floating, drowned, in a lake. Other than getting a little cold and bored at times, I really didn’t do anything.”
Miss Eaves scoffed at this. “No need to be so self-effacing, Miss Montague. I’m sure the physical trials caused more irritation than cold and boredom. I’m here to write the real story. Once I’ve heard from you exactly how cold and bored and filled with discomfort you were, and then added how elated, or otherwise, you must feel now, I shall turn my full attention to Mr Westaway.”
The young woman rolled her shoulders as if she couldn’t wait to start scribbling, and Faith and Crispin shared a smile over her bent head once she’d scratched a few notes.
“Is this your first piece, Miss Eaves?”
Miss Eaves shook her head. “I’ve found a variety of pieces with which to fill the magazine over the past three weeks. But this is my first important profile piece. The size of the prize and the secrecy surrounding its benefactor has had the art world agog. Is that a word you English use in polite society?” She looked unperturbed, rushing on without waiting for an answer. “My uncle calls me brash and likes to edit my stories himself, but I’m the reporter on the ground. There aren’t too many of us. Women, I mean, doing this kind of work, but the world is changing, and whereas a few years ago I’d have been a curiosity, now that is not the case. At least, not where I come from.”
“I think things are slower to change in England,” Faith murmured. “Traditions are strongly adhered to, including a woman’s place.” She stared at her toes. “A woman’s respectability counts for more than her intelligence,” she added, more to herself, though Miss Eaves picked up on this immediately.
“Oh, in America too, but there is much greater license and freedom from where I hail.” Her pencil paused, and two blackbird-like eyes regarded Faith. “I’ve been fascinated by the difference in the way people think here, how people get ahead, what is accepted. Lord, but I wouldn’t like to live my whole life in this country as the unmarried woman I am, keeping my head down, not being allowed to work. Anyway, I’m not here to talk about me. Mr Westaway, please tell me what inspired you to choose the type of painting you did? I believe you received a bag of props and had to create something from that. What did you have to incorporate? Each painting is significantly different though yours stands out, naturally.”
“Rose petals, Miss Eaves.”
Faith saw his clouded brow, and recalled his discomfort when he’d been confronted with the crimson flowers. His discomfort had clearly grown when Lady Vernon had made her suggestions, but with water as an essential medium, it was only natural that the petals had been arranged to float about Faith’s prone form.
When they were alone together later tonight, if it could be managed in secret, she’d quiz him about it. There was so much they each had to learn about the other. But she’d observed a multitude of men during her years at Madame Chambon’s, and there was a sincerity about Crispin that was lacking in the many braggarts and pumped-up blades who’d crossed that threshold.
Crispin’s warm smile enforced every hope she had for the success of their marriage. When Miss Eaves departed having written her piece, and Lady Vernon was occupied in conversation with Sir Albion and his acolytes, he trailed her to the alcove where she’d sought a modicum of privacy.
“I hoped you’d not be waylaid,” she said. “Or, at least, want to talk to me enough that you’d fob off everyone else.”
“No one else is important right now.” His eyes looked black and full of wanting. Turning, he plucked a full glass of champagne from a passing waiter and replaced Faith’s empty one. “Only you, Faith darling.” His low murmur was like melted chocolate, and it filled Faith with an inner glow.
“Tell me how important I am,” she whispered, taking a small sip of her drink and fixing him with a sly, challenging look over the rim of her glass. She’d angled herself so that she faced the window and her flirtatious manner would not be observed. They’d not have long to be alone together.
“I need you like the earth needs the rain, like the birds need the nectar, like…a blank canvas needs a story. You’re mine, Faith. My story, my sustenance, my inspiration.”
“Inspiration?” She cocked her head, loving his willingness to elaborate, conscious that too much longer alone together might be dangerous. But then, she’d been crucial to him carrying off the prize. People would understand their solidarity for now. They were a team.
They’d always be a team.
“You are good and pure and honest. That’s what inspires me. You’re unlike any woman I’ve ever met.”
“I’m sure you’ve met many women just as good and pure and honest.” That was true enough.
He shook his head. “You’re different. You are without guile. I love that about you. I look at you, and I see someone who would defend principle to the end.”
Faith held up her hand, uncomfortable now. “Crispin, it’s easy to believe the best when you’re—”
“In love?” He took her hand and
kissed the back of it before Faith pulled it back quickly. She tried to speak but he said, “You think I’ve had too much to drink perhaps? You’re afraid that people will observe us? Why? Because you’re afraid of the future? We are destined to be together, Faith. And we will be.”
“You sound confident. I hope you’re right.” Her heart felt very full, but also very heavy suddenly.
“We shall be married as soon as I can organise a special licence.” Now that she considered it, his eyes did seem unusually bright.
“A special licence?” she queried. Three weeks was the earliest they could be married in the usual way after having the banns put up in their respective parishes. For Faith, this was entirely impractical, so she was relieved Crispin had not even considered that idea.
“When I leave for Germany in two weeks, it will be with you as my wife.”
“But it would still be a secret?”
“Are you certain you don’t want your parents to attend? Not even one of your sisters?”
Faith shook her head. “They’ll petition you for money. Oh Crispin, you don’t know my family. They’re impoverished, and the only reason I was given a few weeks in London was because Papa had ideas I could snare a duke.”
“So, you think he’d be disappointed you snared only me?”
Faith coloured. “His excitement would be mortifying. If you love me, you won’t bring my family into it. Please, Crispin.”
“I do love you and I’m marrying you, not your family. You’re right; it would be best if my father knew nothing of it until time had passed and I’d cemented my reputation doing what’s required in Germany.”
“Ah, Mr Westaway, there you are! Lord Athlone is anxious to meet you. Miss Montague.” The new arrival offered Faith a cursory nod before drawing Crispin away, but not before Faith had recognised the curiosity and assessment in his eyes.
Of course, everyone would be wondering what Faith was to Crispin, and any more time spent alone in corners would have tongues wagging, which she could do without when it came to exciting the undesired curiosity of Crispin’s father, should it get back to him.
Keeping Faith Page 17
